The Fate of a Warrior
by Elphius Lndorf Doge
Summary: Grievous' earlier life, starting with his birth, and ending with his shuttle crash. Three parts: Young Hunter, the rest are a surprise!
1. Chapter 1: Birth

**Authors note:** This story is non-canon, but there are going to be some little bits of information that are correct in the Star Wars Universe. People don't usually give me ideas for my fan fictions, but the window of opportunity is always open.

Read and enjoy!

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* * *

**_Part i: Young Hunter_**

* * *

Chapter One: Birth

_Here begins the first stage of Qymaen jai Sheelal's life . . ._

The orange sun sank below the jagged peaks of the Kâä'wéké mountains. The sky was a show of vibrant colours over the desert below: the fiery orange of a gëtchälük's eyes, the dainty pinks of a sôril'änin blossom, or the deep red of an âdäk's blood blended.

One lone Kaleesh stood atop a low rise, his gold eyes glittering as he surveyed the desert before him.

Those who dwelt in the deserts of Mother Kalee were named the Lë'tché'Tä'Döné - fierce people that ran with the herds of sräk and danced with the bones of Huk.

The lone soldier - Âgäst'éc ohn Sheelal - lowered his hood as the hot sun vanished behind the vast mountains. Cool winds came from the east (the direction of the Jenuwaa Sea). He tasted the air with his tongue, tasting salt, then thought of his wife.

At this moment, Yarzyb setch Sheelal was in labour. If he was lucky, he would get another girl . . . One to keep his Öpô company.

Öpô was his third eldest, and only daughter. The rest of his offspring were males. It was the Sheelal's curse: to have more sons than daughters. No Sheelal could ever escape it.

Âgäst'éc looked to where his müfé was resting. "Önô öyk! Frä'dâ!" he commanded in his native Kalee.

The müfé jumped to its feet like a spring, with the speed and grace to match a gëtchälük, and capered toward its master. Âgäst'éc swung his leg over the saddle, jumping up onto the müfé's back like an acrobatic primate. He had done this many times before.

Until tomorrow, he would see his wife.

✠

It was the eerie silence of the cold dawn that was shattered, and not the dusk. In the village-tribe of Tyâyéä'Zahn the wives and children of the soldiers were just beginning to hang out the laundry to dry. Others prepared the morning meal for their families.

Yarzyb setch Sheelal did neither of these things, let alone get up. She was in too much agony to let the idea cross her mind.

An aged woman talked to her in a soft voice. "Breathe deep, and control yourself." This was Midwife, ever the perfectionist, but a competent woman all the same. Her hair was white and what was left of it hung in long strands at the sides of her head.

Yarzyb tried to open her eyes, but they stung from the salty tears. Controlling herself was difficult.

"Öpô!" Midwife barked, and then muttered, "Where is that girl?"

Öpô scrambled into the room. "Yes, Midwife?" she asked in her sweet voice - a voice so sweet that anyone could forgive the Sheelals of producing too few girls. They were just too good to be true!

"Get some clean cloths, girl! And be quick!"

The young girl who had not grown into her hair hurried away. Midwife watched her go, then directed her attention back to Yarzyb. "I hate to be harsh," she growled, "But you've been going on all night," she explained, "And I hate stubborn babies!" She smacked Yarzyb's swollen belly.

"AIEEEEE!" Yarzyb shrieked. Her own shriek was followed by the loud cry of her baby - her new son.

"Is it a girl? Do I have a new sister?" Öpô queried with excitement as she returned with the cloths.

"No!" Midwife snatched the cloths away and hurried to clean up the blood. Carefully she staunched Yarzyb's flow, and cleaned up Âgäst'éc's baby, gently wrapping it up in the remainder of the clean rags. "If only I'd thought of that before," she stated. Midwife's jaw cracked with a yawn, revealing all of her teeth that, would in her youth, been sharp like spears.

Öpô came closer. "He looks fatter then Éog! Nömé, why is he so fat?"

Yarzyb sat up. "Öpô, don't say such things!" Her tone was scolding. "He a normal baby, and your baby brother!"

"But I don't want another brother, Nömé! Can't you just give him away to somebody with too many girls, and bring me a baby sister?"

"Öpô! Shame on you!"

"He's not even normal, Nömé! Look! His eyes are open and he's staring at me!"

Midwife listened to the exchange with mild interest. Poor Öpô, she really did deserve a break. he laughed at the thought.

Midwife was an old woman, with wrinkled skin stretched tight over her frame. Her body was slender and gnarled, with brown, red, and black garments hanging off loosely to allow air circulation. Many years ago, she was the most beautiful woman around, but the years of her practice and the harsh Kalee sun had withered that loveliness away. Never had she been married, and never did she give birth herself.

Quietly, she surveyed the small room, noting everything. For one thing, it was bigger than the other rooms in the Sheelal home, and newly made. "Your husband must have worked hard to get this done so fast!"

"Yes, he did. He had so hoped for another girl."

_That would explain why it's so big_. Midwife nodded. Her attention went to the cooing baby. "Lucky boy, lucky indeed . . ."

"What is it?" Yarzyb asked.

"This boy's going to be great one day. I feel it in my veins."

That was why she was so good at what she did. Midwife felt things that no other could feel, saw what others took for granted. At times, she could be one with her work; she could see how everything fit together.

This was why she was the best midwife on the planet.

But what she didn't tell Yarzyb was that her son would also suffer a great fall. It wasn't her place to do _that_.

Öpô cam closer to the baby. "Nömé, he's looking at me funny, that means he's going to torture me in my sleep!"

Yarzyb smiled. She held out her arms and took her boy. _My little soldier_, she thought, tears glistening in her eyes once more.

Later in the afternoon, her mother-in-law paid her a visit. Seiländrüv dabu Sheelal had fought in the Huk war herself when she was younger. It was her husband, Âgäst'éc's father, who had taught her to fight. H'ztôrroch quam Sheelal had died fighting though, and he had left Seiländrüv a widow and their two children fatherless.

Seiländrüv eyed the baby thoughtfully, then broke out into a smile. "A little warrior!"

"Shkömé," Öpô said, "He'll look at you funny too."

"Nonsense, Öpô. He's sleeping!" The old woman pointed at the infant's closed eyes. Âgäst'éc's son slept soundly in his crib, quiet for once. "Besides, all babies are different, so don't worry."

"But how is he different, Shkömé?" To emphasize her question, Öpô prodded her baby brother in the stomach, bringing out a short whimper.

Slowly the infant woke up, yawning and staring at her once more with those wide eyes. "Nömé!" she cried, and hid behind her mother.

Yarzyb setch Sheelal turned to the door and saw her husband looking in. He came in slowly when she beckoned to him.

Tradition stated that the men could not disturb the women during childbirth. It was strictly a female's business. However, they could come home when the wives said they could. Naming a child was usually a male's job, given he hadn't died.

Âgäst'éc looked at his son and sighed. "I was hoping for a girl," he murmured. Öpô muttered something under her breath, and her father chuckled.

"Where are the other boys?" Âgäst'éc asked.

"They're with your brother, Thârün; I believe they'll come back when supper is ready." Yarzyb answered.

"That would be good for them. I'm tired of all this."

"It is this war that drains you, my dear," Yarzyb rubbed her husband's shoulders affectionately.

"To hell with the Huk, I wish they'd all go away and die!" Âgäst'éc said bitterly.

The baby began to cry.

"I'm sorry," Âgäst'éc picked up his infant son gently, cradling hi in his arms. "Qymean jai Sheelal," he declared. "Because I was dreaming for a girl."

-

**Phonetics of the Kaleesh**:

(PLease note, these are not _official Star Wars _ideas)

ä- 'ah' as in _bat_

é- 'ee' as in _bee_

ô- 'ay' as in _hay_/Long A sound

â- 'ar' as in _car_

ö- Long O sound

ë- 'eh' as in _get_, not 'eh' as in _eh_

ü- 'oo' as in _boot_

ï- 'iss' as in _kiss_

î- 'iz' as in _liz_

á- Long I sound

**Language:**

Nömé- mommy (no-ME)

Shkömé- grandmother (shko-MAY)

Kâä'wéké- mountain range (car-RAH-wee-KEE)

sôril'änin- flower (SAY-ril-AHN-in)

âdäk- animal native to the deserts (ar-DAHK)

Lë'tché'Tä'Döné- Desert Kaleesh; wild people-can literally be called uncivilized in human terms (leh-CHEE-ta-DOH-knee)

sräk- wild herding animal (SRAHK)

-more pronunciation to come!


	2. Chapter 2: First Kill

**Phonetics of the Kaleesh**:

(Please note, these are not _official Star Wars _ideas)

ä- 'ah' as in _bat_

é- 'ee' as in _bee_

ô- 'ay' as in _hay_/Long A sound

â- 'ar' as in _car_

ö- Long O sound

ë- 'eh' as in _get_, not 'eh' as in _eh_

ü- 'oo' as in _boot_

ï- 'iss' as in _kiss_

î- 'iz' as in _liz_

á- Long I sound

Chapter Two: First Kill

_Five years later_ . . .

"Qymaen, come here!" Âgäst'éc called.

It was a mild day, the moist winds from the northwest foretelling rain - the first in the season.

Âgäst'éc ohn Sheelal skirted the periphery of Tyâyéä'Zahn. Desert trees offered sparse shade - their waxy leaves shrivelled from the dry air. Several species of grasses grew around here, such as cëz and hük, in untamable patches. Several horned bushes also thrived here - the gâré, which provided life giving water and medicine.

✠

In the desert a boy-child's toy was the traditional sic knives, whose handles were crafted from báyä wood, and whose blades were made from the teeth of a gëlä. Young girls made their dolls from the husks of vegetables, or the skins of lizards, and made little houses in old dung hills.

Boys learnt to fight very young, and hunt younger still. If they were to support their family when their fathers went to war, then it would be now; the sooner the better.

✠

Qymaen jai Sheelal stalked up to his father. He moved fluidly. Normally, a child of his age was clumsy and awkward, but Âgäst'éc's son had been naturally born with these abilities. His son had surpassed all of his older sons, which was an amazing thing; it was also very hard to believe.

Âgäst'éc was proud of Qymaen - he would make the Huk howl.

"Do you have your knife?" Âgäst'éc directed the question to his five-year-old son.

Qymaen nodded vigorously, whipping out his sic knife; a sic knife was designed for the purpose of assassination, hundreds of years ago when the desert kings ruled the planet; they were no longer than five centimetres, and could be easily concealed in a child's desert robes.

Qymaen's large, golden eyes were bright and alert. Âgäst'éc smiled.

"Do you know what we are hunting?" Âgäst'éc asked again. He crouched down in order to get close to Qymaen.

"Gëlä," Qymaen answered. "A poisonous snake that eats the dead." It was amusing to hear it being said by a child, especially since children had such high, squeaky voices.

"Very good." Âgäst'éc pointed ahead of him. "You are going to catch me one - they have tender flesh and make good eating."

"Okay." Like a little müfé Qymaen was gone.

A few minutes later there was an ugly shriek, and Qymaen returned with the largest gëlä his father had ever seen. It looked to be about five metres long.

Young Qymaen cleaned his sic knife, then hid it under his robes. "Is that good?" he asked, looking up at his father expectantly.

"Yes, I'm very proud of you."

Qymaen lit up at the praise, smiling; most of his sharp teeth showed.

Âgäst'éc bent over and picked up the snake with one clawed hand; the dead gëlä was heavy.

"Let's go see Nömé," Âgäst'éc said. It was getting late, and the darkness was creeping up on them at a rapid pace. Dark clouds in the sky indicated a wild storm.

The consisted mainly of round huts constructed from wood, stones, and clay. Most of the home was dug deep into the ground, where it was cool; the roof was little more than a series of round mounds with holes that served as chimneys. The entrance was usually a trap door in the ground which could be weighted down from the inside to keep out dangerous animals and intruders. Only the families that had the time and resources could make small windows, and the Sheelal home had three.

Smoke curled from most of the homes, and children still ran about screaming.

Yarzyb came to meet her husband. For a while she stood oggling at the gëlä. "My dear, did Qymaen catch that?"

Âgäst'éc smiled at his wife, which was all the answer that she needed.

His wife looked down at Qymaen, smiling. "You caught that?"

"Yes, Nömé, and I caught it just for you!"

"Ah! Then let's get you washed up!" Yarzyb laughed. Kneeling down, she picked up her son and went inside. Âgäst'éc followed her.

Inside the house it was pandemonium. All of the boys were running around, yelling threats at each other. Qymaen watched them avidly, and a little bit wistfully, but Yarzyb took him straight to a different room.

Qü was the first to bombard his father with the usual questions. He was Âgäst'éc's second eldest son, after Zëtü and Öpô.

"Wow! Did Qymaen catch that?" Qü jumped up and down. Like Qymaen, Qü was hyper. He tugged at the gëlä's limp tail, and ran away as Ûï and Döchäk chased him away with sticks.

Setting the gëlä down on a smooth stone platter, Âgäst'éc began to rub two stones together. Satisfied that they would make sparks, he brought them to the middle of the room; there was a little clay oven which could not only be used to bake food but fry or cook it on top. For now the top was off, leaving the lower half and revealing the dung and wood fuel. Âgäst'éc lit the fire after several tries, and soon had a good blaze going.

When Yarzyb returned with Qymaen the family feasted upon roast gëlä.

Qymaen had a fight with Éog over who would get the head. Öpô watched with disinterest until Éog gave up and her baby brother came to join her.

Little Qy, as he was known to her (when he wasn't trying to torture her), looked up at Öpô with his wide eyes; his stare was so intense that she shivered inwardly. When he was a newborn he had given her that exact stare.

Qymaen broke the silence. "Öpô," he said, "I love you."

Her thoughts were like a groan as she tried to think of what to do. Instead of telling Qy to go away, Öpô asked in her sweetest voice: "What do you want, little brother?"

A mischievious smile touched Qymaen's lips. "Will you tell me a story?" He made his best pleading face.

Öpô scolded herself. Of course he wasn't going to torture her! "Of course," she replied, and tickled his sides.


	3. Chapter 3: Little Sniper

**Phonetics of the Kaleesh**:

(Please note, these are not _official Star Wars _ideas)

ä- 'ah' as in _bat_

é- 'ee' as in _bee_

ô- 'ay' as in _hay_/Long A sound

â- 'ar' as in _car_

ö- Long O sound

ë- 'eh' as in _get_, not 'eh' as in _eh_

ü- 'oo' as in _boot_

ï- 'iss' as in _kiss_

î- 'iz' as in _liz_

á- Long I sound

Chapter Three: Little Sniper

_Two years later . . ._

Öpô ran away from the little monster as fast as she could. She glided by a low wall and was immediately lost from view.

"Öpô!" Qymaen giggled. The _little monster_ ran behind the wall, but couldn't find his sister anywhere. He sunk down in a tired heap, panting with his long, forked tongue lolling out of his mouth, not unlike a dog. It was a hot day, and chasing Öpô had used up all of his energy. After a little while, Qymaen unslung a gun from behind his back and wondered what his father was doing. With a deft hand he hefted the Czerka Outland rifle.

At the time of his birth the great war between his people and the Huk was at a standstill - the wise and pragmatic General Scär had saw fit to negotiate for a short while. Peace talks were brought in somehow, like a miracle, and there was almost peace in reality. But the work of the great General was ruined by the restless youth; the Kaleesh soldiers would rather have had the Huk's blood than their friendship. A caravan of Huk miners were ambushed, and only their young were slaughtered, causing endless grief for their females, who demanded justice. The agreements that were made were forgotten and the war began again, this time fresh with hatred.

Qymaen had grown up through all of this turmoil, and he hated the Huk with a passion. His father had taught him how to use the rifle, so he could someday hunt for his family and protect them. Because the mortality rate was so high, more men were being called up. The village-tribe had no more young men, only grandfathers and boys not yet old enough to fight.

From the shade of the low wall that surrounded his home, Qymaen checked his rifle, doing it the way father had shown him. Öpô came back with a basket balanced on her hip. "Sister!" Qymaen yelled. "What are you carrying?"

"Supper!" Öpô spared her brother a quick glance.

Qymaen finished his inspection of his rifle. He set the weapon down by his side and then gave Völtäg a pat on the head.

Völtäg, a câbdéön hound, had been given to him as a gift from his father-; the câbdéön was only two months old, but it already dwarfed Qymean. It had smooth, grey skin, and mean looking eyes. Corded muscles rippled underneath Völtäg's hide; he would be up to Qymaen's waist when he reached full adult male maturity.

Völtäg muzzled Qymaen's face, bringing out a giggle. His mother called for him, and he ran inside the house, which was pleasantly cool on the inside. Döchäk and Zëtü were quietly playing a game which involved marked bones that were tangled in an intricate pile. Öpô sat on a tattered cushion while sewing a garment with a bone needle and muumuu's hair thread. Qü and the others were probably out hunting - Tyâyéä'Zahn was twenty miles from the nearest jungle; Qymean secretly envied them.

"Qymaen," that was his mother, "Your father is coming home from the war tonight."

"Really?" Qymaen asked, excitement bubbling up inside of him. That would explain why his sister had the basket - there was going to be a feast tonight!

"All the men are returning, so the entire village will be celebrating," Zëtü added, pulling a bone from the pile and adding it to his own. Döchäk grimaced as Zëtü declared that he had won.

"What are you playing?" Qymaen asked.

"Dôvort'Tédvä," Döchäk replied. "I can teach you how to play."

"Okay!" Zëtü moved over for Qymaen.

"Dôvort'Tédvä can be played with a maximum of eight people," Döchäk explained. He gathered up all the bones into a dörok-hide bag, shook them up, and then offered the bag to Zëtü. "The object of the game is to be the first to reach 21 points; there are 38 bones, and there are six colours: red, green, yellow, blue, white and grey - they multiply or take away from your score."

Zëtü said: "Or in other words, the amount of points you receive from the bones are multiplied by the colour - red multiplies by two, green one, yellow three, blue five, white six, and grey can either take away or give - it's the colour you have to watch out for."

Qymaen nodded impatiently.

They spent the rest of their afternoon playing their bone game.

The first soldier was spotted at sunset. Völtäg bolted wildly, leaving Qymaen to catch up. He was followed by his mother who searched the growing crowd frantically. Many of the men were injured, and there were those who acted as pall bearers.

Yarzyb panicked. What if her husband was among the dead? It was her greatest fear. The war had almost separated them, many times before, and it came to a point where she suffered a type of paranoia.

"Yarzyb!" Someone shouted her name. Instinctively she followed the voice, winding past men, children, and other frantic wives, to finally fling herself upon her husband.

Âgäst'éc caught her easily in his muscular arms and immediately breathed in her smell, something he desired as compared to the wreak of blood and decay; he had craved it on the battlefront. He looked at her lovely eyes, and her lovely face, realising she was just as beautiful as when he had first set eyes on her. Âgäst'éc forgot all else around him and, holding Yarzyb close, breathed: "I'm home," in her ear.

Respect was paid to the fallen before the celebration was held. Mothers and fathers mourned their children - sons who they would never see again until the afterlife. Families cried for their fathers and prayed for them. The entire village watched as the bodies were buried deep in the earth.

A death chant went up, and steadily grew louder as a new voice added to the eerie song. It lasted for what seemed forever, until finally the head priest said the words of parting, bidding the fallen farewell. Raising up his arms, the head priest declared in a loud voice: "OUR ANCESTORS WOULD NOT HAVE US GRIEVE, NOR FORGET, FOR THESE MEN DIED SPILLING THE BLOOD OF OUR ENEMIES! TONIGHT, WE SHALL CELEBRATE THEIR VICTORY!" Everyone shouted in agreement, and the celebrations had begun.

For the occasion, four large ödâks had been killed and slaughtered, and were now being roasted over an open pit. Music was being played while drinks were passed around, and everyone was merry as they ate the savory meats and vegetables. Qymaen tried a little bit of everything, enjoying a little bit of everything. He played with some of the other children, but became bored with the games.

More drinks were passed, and Qymaen took the chance to wander away on Völtäg's broad back. He peered into the shadows, and with a bored sigh shifted his rifle.

Moonlight illuminated the periphery of the village-tribe, frosting it with a silvery-blue icing. Seeing it made Qymaen long for the world outside of his home; he nudged Völtäg's sides, and urged the animal forward, guiding it. Then he dismounted at the outskirts, and sat on a rock, like a little sentinel. Qymaen sighed, and played with his rifle, admiring the way it looked in the moonlight.

Slowly, he went into a stupor. His head nodded as sleep began to take him. There was a low growl, and he was startled. Völtäg stared off in the distance, quivering, poised for attack. For a second Qymaen panicked, but then calmed himself. As soon as the câbdéön ceased its growling, Qymaen strained his ears for the slightest sound.

Then he heard it: the far off noise of falling sand. He leaned forward, squinting. What he saw sent a thrill of excitement through his small body - a group of mounted Huk riding towards his home. He sounded the alarm.

A dead silence ensued, then pandemonium as the families stampeded to get inside their homes. The soldiers shouldered their weapons and ordered themselves into ranks. Even slightly drunk they were still able to pull themselves together.

Just as the first Huk entered the firelight, the soldiers were ready. Swords and other weapons pounded the invaders back, cutting them down.

Âgäst'éc waded into the mass, hacking his way with a vëlx spear. For every insect down another three wormed its way past the defences. Bloodlust filled him, and Âgäst'éc swung wildly, moving in such a way that his own brethren fell back. A Huk larger than himself grabbed the spear and broke it in two as if it were a twig.

Qymaen had hidden himself. During the battle he watched his father fight with admiration. That was his father - Qymaen loved his father, his Däyé, his Hëlsöm. Now his father was in trouble; he raised his rifle, cocked it, aimed, and fired without hesitation. The bugs head exploded, a sickening spray of green blood bursting out of the gaping wound where the head once was.

Everything that followed was an indistinct blur. Yet Qymaen remembered being picked up by his father, and he just vaguely remembered saying: "Don't leave me, Däyé!"

"I'm not going anywhere," his father replied, and then carried him back home.

The following day there was a mass burning outside of the village. A large column of smoke could be seen from the window of the Sheelal dining room. Yarzyb had prepared a special breakfast just for her husband. It consisted of mütchékä soup and lëpâ - a strong red liquor that smelt like sweet meat, but tasted like rotten pëp root. Of course, only Âgäst'éc drank it, being tired and sore all over.

Later, during the afternoon, Qymaen got to see all of his father's scars, which delighted him. During the war Âgäst'éc had collected a few items: a dagger-like mandible of a Huk, the shard of a _lig_ sword, and a small gem (which he gave to his wife). The mandible he gave to Qymaen, as a late birthday present.

Afterwards, Âgäst'éc and Qymaen's older siblings performed some much needed ablutions.

Âgäst'éc was engaging in conversation with his other sons while his youngest played with pebbles.

Qymaen would occasionally look up at his brothers, who were all slim built, or at his father, who was covered in muscle. He watched in fascination as his brothers washed.

Üï and Döchäk were trying to bring down their father when Qü cried: "Qymaen, why are you sitting about? Quit playing with stones and come join us!"

"Yes!" Zëtü and the others agreed.

"No." Qymaen replied flatly.

Éog lifted him up. "Come on, little brother!" he said.

"Däyé!" Qymaen screeched. Éog tickled him with a dead leaf, making him shriek and laugh.

Üï and Qü wrestled Éog and Qymaen escaped. Zëtü caught him underneath he armpits and turned him upside down, holding him by his legs. "No! Stop!" Qymaen yelled. He kicked his skinny legs and squirmed in his oldest brothers grasp.

Zëtü laughed uncontrollably. Qymean's feet beat at his chest repeatedly, the stubby little claws at the end of his toes, tickling him.

Âgäst'éc relieved Zëtü of Qymaen. "Come on, Qymaen, don't you want to be clean for Náyä?"

"Yes," Qymean pouted.

"Qymaen-"

"Bad!" Qymaen screamed. "Hëlsöm, you are bad! BAD! BAD! BAD!" he hit his father with his small fists, then turned around and ran to the house crying. "Nömé!" he yelled.

Yarzyb abandoned her dishes to see what was wrong. "Oh, Qymaen," she breathed when she saw her son's tear-streaked face. The salt from his tears had turned his irises green, and the corners of his eyes were pink. Rolling down her sleeves, she bent down and picked up Qymaen. Before she turned to go, she told Öpô to finish the dishes.

"Yes, yes," Öpô said. She put down her needle and thread.

Yarzyb went into an adjoining room, pulling the thick curtain for privacy, and set Qymaen down on a cushion. "What happened, Qymaen?" Yarzyb asked while she undid her outer robe - she wrapped it around Qymaen, then sat beside him.

Qymaen sniffed. "They were teasing me, Nömé, and Däyé let them."

"Oh," Yarzyb wiped a tear from her son's face. "I'm sure he didn't mean it that way, Qymaen-"

"Yes, Hëlsöm did it to me on purpose!"

"Qymaen!" Yarzyb said. "Your Hëlsöm has not been here very often to know that you wouldn't like that. He's been fighting all of this time."

"So."

"Why don't you tell him that you don't like being teased?" Yarzyb asked. "It hurts him when you do that." She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dress.

Qymaen turned his head away.

"He didn't want to hurt you." Yarzyb insisted.

Sniffling, Qymaen hugged his mother. "Will Hëlsöm be mad at me?" he asked at length.

"No-"

"I hit him."

"Oh, Qymaen," Yarzyb breathed. Her son nudged her shoulder and she held him closer.

"Should I apologize?"

"Yes."

"Okay." Qymaen drew away from his mother's embrace. He ran out of the house with his mother's dress still wrapped around his wiry body.

"Hëlsöm!" he yelled. He ran past a half-clothed Zëtü.

"Qymaen!" Zëtü laughed. "Have you taken to stealing Náyä's dresses?"

"Be quiet - Hëlsöm!" Qymaen yelled at the top of his lungs.

His father was sitting in the shade, pretending to be fixing something but really looking off into the distance. Qymaen jumped onto his lap.

Âgäst'éc grunted. "Qymaen, I thought you were mad at me?" was all he said.

Hugging his father, Qymaen said, "I'm sorry, Däyé."

Qymaen's Hëlsöm sighed. "I'm sorry too, Qymaen." Âgäst'éc returned the embraced.

Âgäst'éc was recalled to the war five months later. Everyone would miss him dearly.

-

**Notes:**

Hëlsöm: father

Náyä: mother

**A/N**: Don't comlpain about the phonetics, they're not human.


	4. Chapter 4: Fatherless

**Phonetics of the Kaleesh**:

(Please note, these are not _official Star Wars _ideas)

ä- 'ah' as in _bat_

é- 'ee' as in _bee_

ô- 'ay' as in _hay_/Long A sound

â- 'ar' as in _car_

ö- Long O sound

ë- 'eh' as in _get_, not 'eh' as in _eh_

ü- 'oo' as in _boot_

ï- 'iss' as in _kiss_

î- 'iz' as in _liz_

á- Long I sound

Chapter 4: Fatherless

_A year later . . ._

Today was Qymaen's birthday. He was excited for once because his father would be coming home again. In standard, human years (whatever _humans_ were), he was eight years old. A hard storm pounded outside while he sat on his stone bed, playing with one of his knives; his mother never approved of them, but his father had insisted. _Knives were the toys of an infant male._

Qymaen's bed was low to the ground, like most Kaleesh beds, and situated opposite from the entrance. The curtain by the door was down so that his mother would think he was asleep. A smooth-surfaced rock sat at the foot of his bed, which acted as a table to him. The Huk mandible was among the many things that covered it.

Without announcing herself, his only sister came in. She had brought him food.

"You now, you should be asleep, Qymaen," Öpô chided as she set the plate in front of him.

He smiled up at Öpô. "You're pretty," he told her. It was true, even if he was too young to see what a grown male would. Öpô was perfect, with a thin, willowy body, graceful movements, and nice wide hips that were round and soft. If she were to unwrap the scarf around her head, he'd be able to poke some fun at her hair. As such, he was unable to do so, but was fully aware that the new growth was short and incomparable to their mother's.

A loud peal of thunder rumbled outside. Qymaen's sister sat down beside him on his bed. "Hëlsöm would be displeased if he heard you say that."

"No he wouldn't," Qymaen retorted. "He'd scold you for denying that you're pretty!"

Öpô laughed – a soft hissing noise inside her throat – and cradled her brother in her arms. "I should tell; you're playing with knives again. Náyä will be angry!"

Qymaen pleaded, "Please don't!" He clung to his sister.

Öpô escaped his hug with a sinuous twist. At the door way, she turned back to her little brother and smiled.

Qymaen watched her go. Ravenously, he devoured every morsel of food. There was some dried up fruit, and a few strips of raw meat. It was good. When he was finished he turned over on his side, and this time he fell asleep.

For some reason it seemed that he had only been asleep a few seconds when someone shook him awake. Yarzyb was bent over him,

"Nömé?" Qymaen asked, rubbing his eyes sleepily. He relaxed as his mother lifted him off his bed. At the moment he was more confused than annoyed at being woken up, and his mother took the opportunity to carry him to another room. His jaw cracked with a yawn, and he fell back to sleep with his head on his mother's shoulder.

Yarzyb set little Qymaen down on the cloth-covered stone. Steam from the boiling water permeated her clothing as she undressed herself. After folding her clothes in a neat pile, she turned to Qymaen and did the same. She did up her long, red and gold hair into a twisted bun, then bent down and lifted up the large clay pot with her knees (and not her back). Carefully. She dumped the contents of the pot into the shallow stone basin, finishing her job of filling the bath.

Because Qymaen was waking up, Yarzyb picked up her son, and stepped into the warm water. Easing herself down, she sighed as the warm water touched her silky scales. Qymaen was wide awake.

"Nömé!"

Since Qymaen was four and able to understand the concept of baths Yarzyb always had difficulty giving him a bath. The child was just so stubborn at times! He and Âgäst'éc were both alike in stubbornness that it sometimes drove her mad.

Qymaen was shocked that his mother would do such an undignified thing to him! "Nömé!" was all he could muster.

Yarzyb took the opportunity to soap up her son. Quickly she rubbed a palm-sized soap leaf (or _queslä_) over her protesting offspring. "Don't you want to be clean for Hëlsöm?" she asked at one point.

"No," Qymaen replied in a grumpy voice. He shot a sharp glance at his mother. "Nömé, I don't think _you're_ very pretty!"

His mother was taken back by the insult. Qymaen was gone before she could blink, running through passageways while vigorously shaking in order to stay warm.

Öpô popped in her head.

"Do you-?"

"No, he's clean," said Yarzyb with bemusement.

"But he's-"

"Let him run it off." Yarzyb setch Sheelal sank back into the warm bath.

It was still raining when the men appeared. Qymaen stood on tip-toes, eagerly awaiting the moment when his father would appear amongst the soldiers. One by one they filed past, but they refused to look at him.

_What's wrong_? He wondered. Usually they would say something to him, smile, or maybe even wink.

It began to thunder overhead. Something was very wrong, although his child's mind would not admit it. Hëlsöm would come to him – that immortal figure in his mind – and then everything would be alright.

Qymaen turned his head and screamed for his mother. Agony clawed at his heart when he saw the single body draped across the wooden board, limp like so many rags. Cold, cloudy eyes stared out from an expressionless face; the only thing which marred it was an ugly gash which ran all the way down to his abdomen.

Yarzyb wailed – a long, sickening wail. Zëtü tried to hold her up, but she still sank down. Âgäst'éc was the only casualty.

A funeral was held for Âgäst'éc ohn Sheelal. It was private. Dawn air chilled the mourning family.

Qymaen jai Sheelal walked up to his father's grave, dropping the knives that he had received from him as a birthday present four years ago from Hëlsöm. "You left me, Däyé." The words were choked, and inarticulate. Qymaen – who could no longer cry tears – wailed. He ran way from the grave and into his mother's arms.

It was finished. The youngest was the last to pay their respects to the dead, and it was over.

His elder brothers covered the battered body with sand and loam.

"Âgäst'éc would not want me to be dragged down by his death," Yarzyb said to herself. Qymaen was whimpering in her arms as she carried him home.

"I'm sorry for not saying you were pretty, Nömé!" Qymaen cried.

"It's okay, Qymaen."

"No, it's not! Däyé's dead!" he sobbed.

Yarzyb sighed. Her son was not taking his father's death very well. She decided to put him to bed again; he obviously didn't sleep much last night. "I'm going to make you a special supper tonight, since we didn't get to celebrate your birthday yesterday.

"Okay," Qymaen muttered.

That night Qymaen was still not doing very well. Éog tried unsuccessfully to cheer him up.

"Come on, Qymaen." Éog patted his baby brother on the back. "Cheer up! Hëlsöm would-"

"NO!" Qymaen screamed. He lashed out at his brother, digging his blunt claws into his skin.

"Qymaen!" Öpô cried.

Their mother stood up and stormed over to break up the fight. "Qymaen jai Sheelal! LET GO OF YOUR BROTHER!" No one has ever heard Yarzyb yell. Qymaen began to wail uncontrollably as she picked him up and brought him to his room.

They didn't celebrate his birthday that day.

When the moon was at its peak, Qymaen sat up. He looked around his room with wide eyes. Something was in the room, and it scared him. Fear quickened his breathing, but it was drowned out by hatred at a frightening speed. Qymaen didn't care.

"Gods of war," he breathed, his voice suddenly deepening, "Hear my prayer."

The silence pounded in his ears. A strange thing was happening to him, he detected the subtle tugging at his heart, and he embraced it. His body was filled with fire.

"I pray to you," he began again, "To give me power from above-"

More silence. He closed his eyes and saw a dull orange light as if his room were on fire.

"-To kill the Huk, and avenge my father."

Was that a scream he heard from outside?

"I will be the best warrior on Náyä Kalee!"

-

**Notes:**

All I can say is that you should see this story as more of a _human's_ perspective of the Kaleesh, and Qymaen. They are inhuman creatures, and don't think or act the same way.

There are more chapters, but since I am working on the next ones for part one, and the plots for part two, it will be slow in getting set up. Sit back and enjoy the ride; advice is totally, 100 welcome.


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